Being in this place reminds me of how it felt back then, when everything between us was fragile and unsure. I used the glass doors as an excuse to tease him, and while he was angry at the time, the payoff did not disappoint. This time, he's turning the tables on me.
I wonder how I'm supposed to signal him that I'm here. He might've heard the thunk of my door closing, if he were in the main part of his room. But I don't know how long he's been standing out there. Should I knock on the glass? Or have I accidentally circumvented the game by overlooking some clue that's hidden here?
As if on cue, my phone buzzes. I fumble it out of my purse and stare at the message.
Well done. You know what to do next.
Of course, when I look up, he's smiling at me.
With two feet of air and a quarter-inch of glass between us, it's tempting to yank the door open and tackle him to the floor. But I know that's not what this game is supposed to be, and I did promise to play by the rules. Clearing my throat, I give him a casual little wave and head over to the mini-bar.
He doesn't have to say what he's thinking. I can read it in his eyes, in the casual drape of his body as he leans against the glass. I can see it clear as day in the sinful curve of his lips as he watches me.
Put on a show for me. If it's good enough, you'll get your reward.
The last time I did this, I felt bold. But now I'm anything but, which is exactly what he wants.
I pour myself a bourbon and stir it with my finger, the way he once did in front of me. When I lick the sweet, smoky liquid off my finger, though, I make a much bigger show of it. At first I pretend that I've forgotten he's even there, but I do shoot a glance to make sure he's watching. As if he wouldn't be.
After that, I take a sip, swallowing deliberately and letting out an exaggerated sigh of pleasure. He can't hear me, but he can see my lips part and my eyes close, my chest rising and falling as I take in the air and let it out. I set my drink down on the end-table and step out of my shoes, one by one.
Then, I sit down on the edge of the bed, hiking up my skirt just enough to undo my garters. As I roll one stocking down my leg, I notice him loosening his tie.
He loves the garters. From here, he can't tell if I'm wearing panties or not, which is exactly how I want it. I have to weigh the sickening cliche of doing a Basic Instinct thing right now against the reaction I'm guaranteed to get...
As I roll down my other stocking, the decision is made. Obviously I've got quite bit more...thunder than Sharon Stone, so it's hardly going to be as subtle, but I have to give it a shot. And anyway, subtlety isn't the name of the game when it comes to flashing.
Reaching for my drink, I let my thighs part just enough to answer the unspoken question. It takes all of my self-control not to look at him while I do it. I smile to myself and cross my legs, taking another sip before I risk a glance at him.
His jaw twitches, his eyes widening slightly. He's keeping it together, more or less. A moment later he pulls out his phone again, and mine is soon buzzing with another message.
Check the drawer.
He must be talking about the nightstand. Curious, I lean over and tug it open.
A giggle bursts out of my mouth, and I try too late to stifle it with my hand. As if it matters. Adrian has replaced the standard fare with a copy of his very first book, beautifully bound and waiting for me.
I pick it up, and flip it open to the title page.
For my biggest fan. I thought you might enjoy this more than what the Gideons left for you.
P.S. Just in case that's not abundantly clear, I want you to show me how much my writing turns you on. I didn't plan on being so blunt, but I predict by now I'll be feeling a little impatient.
P.P.S. I can't stop thinking about you touching yourself while you read my book. God, I fucking want you, but it's a month before Valentine's as I write this and I know if I come to bed now I'll end up telling you the whole plan. I'm going to jerk off while I picture your fingers sliding into your pussy, and I'm going to come so fucking hard.
P.P.P.S. Remember the safe word is red.
P.P.P.P.S. Remember to hide this book and/or destroy it before we have guests. Or children.
I laugh - a little shakily, because his words have turned my little quiver of nervous excitement into a molten core of holy fuck I'm turned on. And I haven't even started reading the actual book yet.
This one, I haven't read in a long time. Not since before us. Not since before I even knew who the supposed author, "Natalie McBride," even was. I read what he writes now, of course, but going back in time like this is going to be a hell of a head-trip.
I already know what scene I'm going for. It's about halfway through the book, when the hero, Dirk, ties up the lovely ingenue Amanda while she's seated on the floor. He arranges candles around her legs so she can't move without risking the flames against her skin. Then, he blindfolds her, and proceeds to talk dirty.
The idea is she can't even squirm, she has to stay perfectly still as he tells her absolutely every depraved thing he wants to do to her. I always thought the descriptions of Amanda's slow descent into lust-madness were wonderfully on point, almost as if the author had been through something like that themselves.
Well. I'll show him lust-madness. He doesn't know the meaning of the word.
I want to tease him, but that would mean teasing myself. At this point, I'm too far gone. I slip my fingers between my legs, a little tentatively, at first, but pretty soon I forget to be even slightly embarrassed. Normally I would keep things more business-oriented, just stroking the sweet spot and ignoring the rest, but I do still want to put on a show. As I read, I let my fingers dip inside, feeling the velvety heat of my own body tighten around my fingers. Wanting more. Wanting him.
My pace starts to quicken along with my breath, and soon my fingers are flying. Cursing softly, I give in to the temptation to thrust my hips up to meet my hand. The book falls to the ground, I'm quickly losing sight of everything but my impending climax.
On the nightstand, my phone buzzes, just as my toes are starting to curl. I could stop, probably, but I'm not going to. He already made me wait long enough. I come with a gasping sob, legs shaking, relief flooding my veins as I flop backwards onto the mattress.
The sound of the sliding glass door clicking shut barely registers. I shake my head, struggling to sit up, but his hand on my shoulder stops me. I twist my head around so I can see his face.
The first thing I actually see is his hard-on, because it's right at eye level and it's pretty hard to miss. My performance took the edge off, but I'm nowhere near satisfied. I still want him. And visible proof of how much he wants me back is pretty damn titillating.
Eyes blazing, he snatches up my phone ands holds the screen in front of my face. I have to blink a couple of times before my eyes will focus.
Don't come yet.
Shit.
I knew it would be something like that, if I'm being honest with myself - and that's basically the reason why I ignored it. But it's not fair. He was setting me up to fail.
"Sorry," I mutter, probably not sounding that sorry. I clear my throat, and try again. "I didn't...I couldn't..."
He just shakes his head, sitting down on the edge of the mattress. "And you were doing so well, too."
"It's not fair," I insist. "You waited until the last possible second -"
"Did I ever say I was fair?" he cuts in. "What's not fair is you continuing to act like such a defiant little ingrate after all the time I put into this. Get up."
"But I..."
"Get up," he repeats, louder this time. "I'm not going to say it again."
I take a long, shaky breath a I push myself up off the bed. He's not really angry. After five years of working for him, I know the difference. He orchestrated this an as excuse to "punish" me, because it's what we both want. My Adrian is a master of the mindfuck.
"This isn't fair," I insist, because I know my so-called defiance just makes him harder. "You di
d this on purpose. If you really wanted me to follow your orders..."
Smack.
I gasp as his palm connects with my ass.
"Say it's not fair one more time." He swallows hard; he's almost doing a good job of covering up just how much he wants to abandon this game and push me down on the bed to fuck me senseless.
I glance at him, over my shoulder. Our eyes silently challenge each other.
"It's not fair," I whisper.
Snarling, he shoves me down on the bed, face first this time. I have just enough time to react, so I don't actually face-plant into the pillows. Crawling up behind me, he kneels, grabbing my hips and yanking me up against him. My dress is still technically there, but it's bunched up so high around my waist it basically doesn't matter at this point.
For a moment, he just holds me there, grinding his still-clothed cock against my wetness. Then he pulls back just enough to unzip, and smacks me once more for good measure while he slides home.
Moaning, I grab fistfuls of sheets and pillows as he rocks into me. He starts a little slow like he's trying to make it last, but then he's picking up the pace, hard and fast, with the occasional spank punctuating his movements.
Sometimes, when he's obviously struggling to contain himself, I like to deliberately tighten around him as he thrusts in deep. I love the noises he makes, the way his eyes close involuntarily, and most of all I love making him lose control.
This time, though, I really can't help it. My body is still quivering with aftershocks, and the pleasure of every deep thrust is so intense, tears are leaking from my eyes. I never want it to end, but I'm afraid I'll shatter to pieces if it doesn't.
"Stop it," he growls, and I try to whimper a protest that I can't. But it doesn't matter, and I know that. He repeats the command a few times, growing more and more breathless, until finally it just comes out in a groan as his hips jerk of their own accord. I sigh as he stills, then laugh a little, in spite of myself.
His grip tightens. "Is something funny?"
Oh. So the game's not over. I don't know why I thought it would be.
"No," I whisper, as he pulls away from me, so fast that I gasp and whimper at the sudden loss.
"You think I'm done with you already?" His fingers ghost along my neck, pushing my hair back from my face and letting it fall again. "Not even close. I've got more than enough plans for tonight, plenty of time to recover from a minor derailing." He chuckles quietly, touching my hip. "Not that I need much time, with you looking like this."
Blushing hotly, I realize I'm still on full display. I scramble back up into a seated position, tugging my dress down as if he hasn't seen me like this a hundred times.
"That's not what I meant." He can't stop smiling, balanced precariously on the edge of falling into our old habits. He wants to relax, I think, to kiss me and crawl into bed and cuddle like the sappy idiots we've become in the past few months. But more than that, he wants to keep playing this game. And hell - so do I.
"You look just as tempting with all your clothes on as you do without, Ms. Burns," he says, softly, rearranging his face back into something a little more serious. "Believe it or not. Maybe even more so. But you're very pretty when you blush, so I think you should undress for me."
I swallow hard. "Oh, you think so, huh?"
He nods, slowly. "I think so. And I know you're going to do it, because the only thing you want more than to slap me in the face is to get me inside you again." A slow smile pulls at the corner of his mouth again. "And the only way to make that happen...is to follow my every command."
Very slowly, very carefully, I stand up. I am blushing, because there's still a part of me that cringes when he looks at me too intently. The less I'm wearing, the worse it is. I don't think it's just because of my body. I think all women feel the same thing, that strange anxiety that he's somehow looking for flaws instead of seeing perfection.
I understand, on an intellectual level, that I am not worse than the supermodels most people would picture him with. I am simply different. But years of cultural conditioning, of my mother's sneers, have taught me otherwise. It's difficult to believe what I see in front of me, no matter how convincing it is.
He's hard again - still hard? - and I still can't look at his face. He's not ordering me to, maybe because he knows how difficult it would be to keep up the dominant pretense if I did.
"Shoes," he says, when I'm finished stripping.
Confused, I glance at the discarded Louboutins on the floor.
"On," he clarifies, exasperated. "For fuck's sake, try to keep up."
I manage not to roll my eyes as I step into them. It feels strange, to say the least, but his sharp intake of breath tells me he doesn't think it looks strange. I wonder why he's never asked me to do this before. He obviously enjoys the view.
"Wait here," he says, softly.
He disappears through the sliding door, and a moment later he's back. He has a small bag, and I know he's brought a few "new things to try," because he promised and-or threatened such last week.
In spite of the spankings and the little power struggle thing we've always got going on, I've never thought of us as a particularly kinky couple. At least, it's never been formalized. But I'm pretty sure that suspiciously cheerful pharmaceutical billionaire that we met over Christmas, Ben Chase, has been in Adrian's ear. I've talked to his wife a bit, and I'm pretty sure the "bag of tricks" idea came straight from Ben. He's unapologetically freaky, a word he'd happily use to describe himself. I'm not sure what kind of interests might be lurking in the back of Adrian's mind, but I'm kind of excited to find out.
And me? I'm not sure. But I suppose if I can love the pain of a spanking, I can learn to love almost anything.
"I'm going to tie your arms behind your back," says Adrian, softly. "It shouldn't hurt. But it will stop you from touching anything without my permission. You can't be trusted without me restraining you."
"But I didn't..." I start to protest, but I drift off when I feel the rope sliding against my wrists. It feels...good. Like, goosebumps-good. What the hell kind of material is it? It's smooth, but not silky-smooth, just rough enough to make my skin tingle.
"I'm not going to blindfold you again," he says, as his fingers work rapidly behind me. I bite my lip, trying not to let on how much I'm enjoying the sensations. "Because I want to see your face. All of it. But I'm going to ask you to close your eyes, and keep them closed. I'll be watching. If you don't, I promise the punishment won't be something you enjoy."
I nod, squeezing them shut tightly.
He chuckles. "Not yet," he murmurs, his lips against my ear. "But you're doing well so far. Good girl."
I pop my eyes open again. He's subtly turned me around so we're facing the full-length mirror next to the dresser. I'm naked, he's fully clothed, and we ought to make a strange pair, but we don't. His eyes burn into mine, one arm surrounding my waist and pulling me hard against him. My bound hands are pressed against his cock, but I resist the urge to try and touch him further.
"If I could make you see yourself the way I see you, I would," he says. With me in these heels, he can easily rest his chin on my shoulder; and he does, so that every hot breath brushes past my ear. I shiver a little. "But for now, you'll just have to accept that what I see is what's real. Don't be ashamed, and don't try to hide from me. Not just tonight, ever. Understood?"
Face burning, I just nod.
"Close your eyes," he says.
I do.
For a moment, he steps away from me. Then I feel the heat of his body again, and something else. It's smooth and flat, cool against my skin, as he runs it across my shoulders and down my back.
Thud.
I hiss, rocking forward and fighting to keep my balance. It's a paddle. Of course it is. The feeling is somehow both heavier and sharper than his hand, and I'm not sure how I feel about it.
"Do you know what I regret the most?" he whispers in my ear.
I shake my head.
"I n
ever got to fuck you in my office. Bent over my desk. On the floor. Up against the window. I missed my chance to do that, and I've never forgiven myself."
Laughing softly, I squirm against the ropes. It's not uncomfortable, exactly, but it's strange to be held so tightly in one position. "That's really what you regret the most?"
A sharp pain shoots through my nipple, and I realize he's just flicked it with his finger. "Ow. God damn it."
"Right now," he growls, "my biggest regret is not gagging you."
The paddle connects with my ass again, and I try to choke back my whimper.
"Does that hurt?" he asks.
I grit my teeth, expecting another. "Isn't that the point?"
"Answer me." His tone is dangerous.
"Yes, it hurts. I don't like it." It kills me to admit that, for some reason. "I thought that was the point."
There's a heavy sound, like he's tossed it aside carelessly. "This isn't a punishment," he says. "Tell me if it hurts the wrong way, so I can stop."
A little sigh of relief escapes my lips. "And what if it hurts the right way?"
There's a grin in his voice. "Then beg for more, like a good girl."
He's really relishing this. One hand slides around my body again, down past my stomach and between my legs. I gasp as his fingers quest inside, feeling how hot I am, the remnants of our mingled wetness, the unmistakable reminder that he's already claimed me once tonight.
"You know I had a strange thought the other day," he muses, his fingers sliding deeper as I moan softly. "I think I fuck you often enough that there's always something of mine with you. I mean, deep inside. Deeper than this. Nothing you can wash away, when you pretty yourself up to be presentable for the rest of the world. Because nobody else gets to see you wrecked like this, do they?"
I shake my head.
A Valentine for His Secretary (His Secretary: Undone) Page 3
